#also i wrote the bottom text myself. not intentional that it looks like the spirit phone cover text

[angel-blood-art]

i thought today was neon white's 2nd anniversary.

it wasn't, it was 6 days ago 🥹 either way happy very late 2nd anniversary neon white

[backtozeon]

Dear Fans of Watchmen, Hello there. My name is Damon Lindelof and I am a writer. I am also the unscrupulous bastard currently defiling something that you love. But that’s not all that I am. I am a twelve-year old boy being handed the first two issues by my father. “You’re not ready for this,” he growls with a glint of mischief in his eye. My parents have recently divorced and he has gone rogue, so there I am in my bed, flashlight beam illuminating pages, watching the Comedian fall again and again and again. The old man was wrong. I am ready for this. Because this was written just for me. I am thirty-eight. A man offers me the opportunity to adapt Watchmen for television. The filmed adaptation came out less than a year ago, but that doesn’t matter. I tell him I am not interested and that perhaps he should let sleeping dogs lie with hopes they will eventually be run over by a car tire, bursting their stomachs. He does not get the reference. I am watching my father haggle with a man in a wheelchair. I am fifteen years old and we are at a comic book convention in New York City, long before attending a comic book convention was something anyone wanting to ever have sex with another person would admit to. I definitely want to have sex with another person. My father finally harangues the merchant down to thirty dollars for a guaranteed authentic screenplay of Watchmen, soon to be a major motion picture! Now, he reads aloud from the script as “The Watchmen” battle terrorists at The Statue of Liberty. Something is wrong. The old man’s brow furrows, scanning the text in a mixture of disappointment and rage, a child who has just been told that Santa didn’t bring him presents this year, then robbed the house and beat up his parents. “What the fuck is this?” my father mutters. It is the first time he swears in front of me. Another man offers me the opportunity to adapt Watchmen for television. I am forty now. I tell him someone else asked me to do this a year ago and I declined. He inquires as to why I said no. I tell him that Alan Moore has been consistently explicit in stating that Watchmen was written for a very specific medium and that medium is comics, comics that would be ruined should they be translated into moving images. The Another Man pauses for a moment, then responds – “Who’s Alan Moore?” I am twenty-three and living in Los Angeles. My father flies out from New Jersey for my birthday and gives me a present, a new edition of the “graphic novel” that is Watchmen. He explains to me that this is the publisher’s way of retaining the rights to the characters. He tells me that Dan and Adrian and Jon and Walter and Laurie are all serfs, working the land for a Feudal Lord that will never grant them freedom. My father is more than a little drunk.. More so, he is a hypocrite for buying me the new edition. “I know, I know…” he says, that same mischievous glint from years ago obscured by now thicker lenses, “But it’s so goddamned good.” Yet Another Man offers me the opportunity to adapt Watchmen for television. “Just a pilot,” he says, “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” I am forty-three now and I am thinking about something I read about Orthodox Judaism. While most religions are cultivated by evangelizing and conversion, Orthodox Judaism doesn’t solicit. If someone from another faith wishes to become an Orthodox Jew, they are rejected. If they are stubborn enough to ask again, they are denied even more harshly. But should they have the audacity to ask a third time? The door cracks open. And if they’re willing to invest an immense amount of time and effort and sacrifice and faith, they are embraced into the fold. Why am I thinking about this? I have said no to Watchmen twice now. This makes me Orthodox Judaism. I crack the door. And now I’m a hypocrite too. I am standing over my father’s hospital bed. I am twenty-nine, the last age at which I will consider myself “young.” The breathing tube was removed two hours ago and they said he wouldn’t last longer than fifteen minutes. It’s a cliché. I’m living a trope. He is unconscious and unable to impart final wisdom nor tell me he was proud all along, even though he never said it out loud. There is no beeping machine showing his weakening heartrate. My father is beyond machines. I hold his cool hand and try not to pray to God because he detested the very idea of God so instead I pray to his gods. I pray to Cthulhu. I pray to 42, the Eternal Cosmic Number. I pray to Dr. Manhattan, far away in a galaxy less complicated than this one. The television is on and the Lakers win the championship. My father never cared about basketball. He didn’t even know the rules. When he dies, I finally understand that I don’t know the rules either. No one does. I am forty-five and I am writing a letter to the fans. The fans of Watchmen. It’s unnecessarily wordy and an exercise in oversharing, but nothing gets people on your side more than telling them about the moment your father died. Sharing such intimate details with strangers feels needy and pathetic and exploitative and yucky and necessary and freeing. I am also looking for an elegant way to escape from this device of quantum observance, a device appropriated from Mr. Moore so that I can speak to those fans from the bottom of my cold, thieving heart. Perhaps I could switch from referring to them in the third person and shift into the second, thus bringing them closer to the first? Would that be amenable to you? First and foremost, if you are angry that I’m working on Watchmen, I am sorry. You may be thinking I can’t be that sorry or I wouldn’t be doing it. I concede the point, but I hope it doesn’t invalidate the apology, which I offer with sincerity and respect. Respect. That’s second and twicemost. I have an immense amount of respect for Alan Moore. He is an extraordinary talent of mythic proportion. I wrote him a letter, parts of which are not dissimilar to this one, because I owed him an explanation as to why I’m defying his wishes and to humbly ask him not to place a curse on me because he knows magic and apparently, he can do that. His response, or whether he responded at all, is between he and I. Suffice to say, even before I sent it, Mr. Moore had made it abundantly clear that he doesn’t want anyone to “adapt” his work. To do so is hubris. Worse yet, it’s unethical. There are a million ways to rationalize unethical behavior – I could argue that Mr. Moore’s partner, the brilliant artist, Dave Gibbons, is equally entitled to authorize access to his masterwork and that he has been kind enough to offer us his blessing to do so. Or I could offer that Mr. Moore cut his veined teeth on the creations of others; Batman, Superman, Captain Britain, Marvelman (he’ll never be “Miracleman” to me), Swamp Thing and The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, not to mention The Charlton characters upon whom his Watchmen characters are based… So am I not allowed to do the same? No. I am not. I am not allowed. And yet… I am compelled. I am compelled despite the inevitable pushback and hatred I will understandably receive for taking on this particular project. This ire will be maximally painful because of its source. That source being you. The true fans. I once said that if one were a true fan of something, they weren’t allowed to hate it. A prominent writer took me to task for such heresy, arguing that just because one was the creator of a show, this did not permit them to pick and choose who was and wasn’t a fan of it. The writer went on to win a Pulitzer for television criticism. I went on to get snubbed by the Razzies for Prometheus. As such, I concede this point, too. After all, even the most fervent lifelong fan of, oh, let’s say the New York Jets, is allowed to shout at the top of his lungs, “YOU SUCK OH MY GOD YOU SUUUUUUUUUCKIII II” and do so while wearing a replica Namath Jersey he purchased for an ungodly sum of money that may or may not have constituted his entire first paycheck on Nash Bridges. But the point. The point is, you love Watchmen. That gives you the right to hate it, too. Because no matter what… You’re still true fans. But to quote the immortal P.W. Herman… “I know you are… But what am IT’ What am I? I’m a true fan, too. And I’m not the only one. What I love most about television is that the finished product is a result not of singular vision, but the collective experience of many brilliant minds. I have the pleasure of sitting in a Writers Room each and every day that is as diverse and combative as any I’ve ever been a part of. In that room, Hetero White Men like myself are in the minority and as Watchmen is (incorrectly) assumed to be solely our domain, understanding its potential through the perspectives of women, people of color and the LGBTQ community has been as eye-opening as it has been exhilarating. We’ve committed to doing the same in front of and behind the camera. And every single person involved with this show absolutely adores Watchmen. But in the spirit of complete honesty, we also sorta want to… uh… Disrupt it? Except I hate that word because now it’s not disruptive anymore. And how can I present as punk rock when I’m now cozy in bed, spooning with Warner Brothers, HBO and DC? Truth be told, everyone there, particularly Geoff Johns (who is as true fan as it gets) has been extraordinarily supportive. Sure, it’s fun to kick around the comic corporate overlords for exploiting writers and artists, but we all know what happened to Jack Kirby and we’re still first in line for every Marvel film. So… how do we answer the challenge of when it is appropriate to appropriate? Which brings us to the most important part. Maybe the only part that really matters. Our creative intentions. We have no desire to “adapt” the twelve issues Mr. Moore and Mr. Gibbons created thirty years ago. Those issues are sacred ground and they will not be retread nor recreated nor reproduced nor rebooted. They will, however be remixed. Because the bass lines in those familiar tracks are just too good and we’d be fools not to sample them. Those original twelve issues are our Old Testament. When the New Testament came along, it did not erase what came before it. Creation. The Garden of Eden. Abraham and Isaac. The Flood. It all happened. And so it will be with Watchmen. The Comedian died. Dan and Laurie fell in love. Ozymandias saved the world and Dr. Manhattan left it just after blowing Rorschach to pieces in the bitter cold of Antarctica. To be clear. Watchmen is canon. Just the way Mr. Moore wrote it, the way Mr. Gibbons drew it and the way the brilliant John Higgins colored it. But we are not making a “sequel” either. This story will be set in the world its creators painstakingly built… but in the tradition of the work that inspired it, this new story must be original. It has to vibrate with the seismic unpredictability of its own tectonic plates. It must ask new questions and explore the world through a fresh lens. Most importantly, it must be contemporary. The Old Testament was specific to the Eighties of Reagan and Thatcher and Gorbachev… ours needs to resonate with the frequency of Trump and May and Putin and the horse that he rides around on, shirtless. And speaking of Horsemen, The End of The World is off the table (THE LEFTOVERS! NOW STREAMING ON HBO GO!) which means the heroes and villains — as if the two are distinguishable — are playing for different stakes entirely. The tone will be fresh and nasty and electric and absurd. Many describe Watchmen as “dark,” but I’ve always loved its humor -worshipping at the altar of the genre whilst simultaneously trolling it. As such… Some of the characters will be unknown. New faces. New masks to cover them. We also intend to revisit the past century of Costumed Adventuring through a surprising, yet familiar set of eyes… and it is here where we’ll be taking our greatest risks. Risk is imperative. I need the feeling in my stomach before I leap from a great height without knowing the depth of the water below. If my body should shatter upon impact, at least it was in pursuit of glory. And let’s be honest… Isn’t there a small part of you that wants to see me explode like a fleshy watermelon? But hopefully, there’s also a part that wants to experience something sort of amazing. As for what I want? I want your validation. I also want not to want it. I’ve given up the opioid highs of Twitter, but continue to score my methadone in the threads of Reddit and the hot takes of morning-after recappers. I’ll be reading and watching and listening to what you have to say because even though I wish I didn’t… I deeply care about what you think. Which brings us, Thank God, to the end of the missive. Endings. I’m GREAT at them. A wise, blue man once said that nothing ever ends. But maybe he wasn’t wise. Maybe he was just scared and alone and sad that he would outlive everything and everyone he ever loved. So I hope this isn’t the last time we correspond, fellow fans… after all, it’s just a pilot and we don’t want to get ahead of ourselves. But maybe… if everything works out the way I hope it does… and if you’re willing to give me a chance, it’s not the end at all… It’s the beginning? With Respectful Hubris, -Damon

[kdinthecity]

Confessions of a Teenage Sugar Queen: Starstruck

I think this one was meant to be “starlight,” but it’s really not. So, after this, I’ll stop tagging as @zutaraweek​ because it’s really not. I’ll keep posting here on tumblr and on Ao3, too.

Chpt. 1 | Chpt. 2 | Chpt. 3 | Chpt. 4 | Chpt. 5 | Chpt. 6 | Chpt. 7 | Chpt. 8

I wake up the next morning with images of fire lingering from my nightmares, and four sinister faces looming over my bedside. A rise of panic seizes me, and a scream nearly escapes my throat when I remember where I am. The masks on the wall in Noren’s guest room are still creeping me out, though, so I roll over and reach for my phone. Without Zuko’s sweatshirt to comfort me, I resort to another one of my pathetic daily rituals. I scroll through every text he’s ever sent me. We exchange a few messages now, and I wonder where he ended up spending the night.

The door slowly creaks open, and I pull the covers up to my chest. I’m dressed decently enough, I suppose, and I secretly hope my unannounced visitor is Zuko. Of course, it isn’t, because he would most certainly knock first.

“Hiya, remember me?” A blur of pink pajamas and dark brown pigtails enters the room.

“Oh. Yeah. Hi there, Kiyi.” She is so close to me now that I catch a whiff of maple syrup and something else vaguely familiar. Mmmm, pancakes for breakfast?

The young girl’s attention shifts to the mysterious décor on the wall, and a wide grin spreads across her face. “I like the dragon empress the best.”

I rotate to look at the masks again, and my eyes are immediately drawn to a blue and white one bearing intricate tribal carvings.

“That’s the Blue Spirit,” Kiyi announces. “Is it your favorite?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Why does everything remind me of Mom? I sigh and bury my face in my pillow, so she won’t see the tears forming. Of course, the fabric smells like moonpeaches.

“It’s my mom’s favorite,” she says without skipping a beat.

Kiyi smells like moonpeaches, too. I bolt straight up in bed. “Is your mom here?” I ask.

Noren knocks softly at the door. “Kiyi, sweetheart. Don’t bother our guest. She had a long day traveling and needs her rest.”

“Sorry, Daddy.”

Once the child leaves, I launch to my feet and quickly dress myself. I stop short before opening the door, though, because I can hear their conversation outside in the hallway.

“And what is our rule about talking about Mommy?” Noren asks his daughter.

“To not to,” Kiyi replies.

“Good girl.”

“But when is she coming home?”

“Soon, Kiyi. Very soon.”

“But Daddy, I think Mommy would like Zuko and Katara. They are nice.”

“I know, sweetheart, but they are not staying here long. We are just helping Uncle Iroh.”

“Mommy likes to help people, too.”

“Kiyi… that’s enough.” Noren’s tone is weary, like they’ve had this conversation before.

Dad and Sokka are not scheduled to arrive until later this afternoon, so I ask if I can show Zuko around Anchorage since I’ve been here several times before. Kiyi keeps slipping up by talking about Mommy, so Noren seems relieved by my suggestion. Good, he’s not suspicious of my plan, then.

I was able to get the information I needed from my perfectly innocent, yet very obliging five-year-old accomplice. I did a little snooping—I mean, investigating around their house, too. Zuko would disapprove if he knew what I was doing. He keeps making these comments about how normal this family seems, and what a loving father Noren is.

Sure. Normal and loving and LYING.

“You weren’t lying to me, were you Katara?” Zuko frowns when we step off the bus.

“No, why?” I say sweetly. OK well, sorta. Not really.

“I thought you said we were going to the library.”

“There is a library somewhere on the Northern Pacific University campus, I’m sure.” My voice breaks, and I’ve given myself away. Zuko can read me just as well as I can read him.

“Katara… what are you up to? Where are we going?”

I make up some fluff. “Yue said this was a great school with lots of emphasis on ecology and stuff.” Hmm, maybe I would be better at public relations than investigative reporting. Then I remember a piece I read in one of the forgotten files on the mystery USB drive. “My mom wrote an article about it. I just… wanted to see it.”

Zuko laces our fingers together and pulls me toward him. I shudder as he kisses my temple and whispers in my ear, “If it’s anything to do with your mom, then I’m right there with you.”

“Thanks.”

I sure hope the feeling is mutual.

At the student center, I send Zuko to buy me a NPU sweatshirt at the campus bookstore while I interrogate the front desk clerk about summer class offerings.

“I’m sorry, miss, but Professor Noriko is not teaching here this session.”

“Are you sure? Check the English department listings,” I persist.

The man glowers at me from behind the counter. “She doesn’t teach English, young lady. She teaches social justice.”

“OK… so when is her social justice class?”

“Not. Offered. This. Session.”

The man is visibly frustrated, but aren’t my intentions obvious by now? “Ugh, so when is it offered!?”

“Are you even a student here, miss? You look a little… young.” He stands to survey me, but I won’t fall for that intimidation tactic.

“Not yet! But I will be… and… you’re not being very helpful! Maybe I don’t want to come here after all.” I stomp my foot and put my hands on my hips, like I’m scolding Sokka for leaving his stinky socks lying around. OK, maybe it’s not the most mature response, but he did peg me. I’m only fifteen, dammit.

Surprisingly, he relents. “Fine. She’s teaching a fellowship at Ba Sing Se University for the summer. Happy now?”

“Ba Sing Se?” Zuko interjects. “That’s on the other side of the world.”

I didn’t see him walk up, but probably because tears are starting to blur my vision. How could we come this close, yet still be so far away?

“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asks, gently grazing my elbow with feather light fingertips.

I shake my head and pull my arm away. “Nothing. Let’s just get out of here.”

Once outside the building, I plan to storm off like I always do, and I expect Zuko to let me, like he always does. But he firmly grabs my wrist instead. When I resist, he pushes me back into a nearby tree. Something burns inside me, but the words, LET ME GO, die in my throat when I see Zuko’s face. I can’t read this expression AT ALL.

I think it might be… desire? Oh fuck, now I’m really on fire.

He kisses me, thank God, but painstakingly slow and sweet despite his vice grip on my wrist and his weight pinning me to the tree.

He steps away suddenly, and sadness returns to his eyes. “Katara, I—“

I lean against the rough bark and try to steady myself. Every part of my body is thrumming with a sensation I’ve never felt this strongly before. I debate between shortened breaths on whether I should run from this or tackle him to the ground for more of those amazing, addictive kisses.

I tilt my head to the side. Zuko looks almost shy now, and I wonder why. Then, he reaches into the bag from the campus bookstore he’s been holding this whole time.

“I bought you something.” He extends shaky hands to reveal a necklace.

I gasp. The pendant is a whalebone carving suspended by a velvety blue ribbon, very similar to the necklace my dad made for my mom except that instead of a wave pattern, it has… stars? It looks like a constellation—maybe the Big Dipper, if my memory serves me correctly.

“It’s supposed to be a bear,” he says. “The school mascot… I think?” He shrugs then gestures toward my neck. “May I?”

I bite my lip and nod. When Zuko’s fingers brush against my skin, chills run up and down my spine. “Thank you,” I whisper.

“They didn’t have a sweatshirt, like you asked for,” he continues. “But since you like cuddling with my sweatshirt, I thought you might like this?”

I have mere seconds to feel embarrassed that he somehow knows about the sweatshirt thing before he pulls out a fluffy white stuffed animal. I helplessly and girlishly squeal when soft fur brushes against the raised flesh on my neck where Zuko had just touched me.

“It’s also supposed to be a bear,” he mumbles. “But I think it looks like a dog.”

“A polar dog!” I declare. I laugh at his furrowed brow of utter confusion. Maybe someday I will share my fictional world with Zuko. “What else is in the bag?” I point at the bulge in the bottom of it.

“Um, you might want to sit down for this next one.”

Alright then. First we had sentimental, then sappy, and now… serious. We settle comfortably in the grass, and I wonder, if he’s lavishing me with gifts and all that, does this mean we’re boyfriend and girlfriend? We haven’t really properly talked about it, yet.

Zuko clears his throat and hands me a book. “I… saw this on a display near the checkout line.”

Everything comes to a halt—those typical teenage feelings of friendly flirting and hormonal hopefulness, all notions of normalcy. I skim a trembling thumb across the title, “Blue Spirit Crashing.”

“Is it… a collection of your mom’s poems?” I ask, noting the author’s name. If so, this confirms my suspicions about Professor Noriko.

“N-n-no. It’s… a story about your mom.”

“What!?” I flip through the book frantically, but I don't know where to begin. I can't even comprehend what I'm looking at right now. Without reading the words, none of it makes sense, of course.

Nothing has ever made sense about any of this. Especially Zuko’s next statement.

“I… read it already. Or well… most of it.”

“You had time to… just now?”

“No. I read the draft.” He turns away from me and tucks his knees under his chin. “In the Painted Lady folder.”

“Oh.”

“So… this Noriko woman. She must be… my mom.” Zuko lets out a strained and awkward laugh. “Or impersonating her.”

“I think she is,” I say. “That’s why I wanted to come here.”

“How did you know?”

“I read about it. In the Blue Spirit file.” And since we’re dropping bombshells, I might as well tell him about Noren, too. Or is it... Ikem?

But Zuko launches himself to his feet and shoots me with another expression I’ve never seen before.

Rage.

“And you didn’t think to tell me about this!?” he yells.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t know she was in this city… or at this school until…” I start sobbing uncontrollably, because he looks so hurt and angry, and I was just trying to help. “I wanted… to be sure… I didn’t want to… give you false hope… and Iroh said that…”

“Uncle!? He was in on it, too!?”

I think about running away for the third time, but we are finally talking about this, a conversation long overdue. It would be better if he wasn't shouting, though.

But this time, Zuko does the running. And I let him go.

It’s a beautiful summer day in Alaska, and I’m spending it sprawled out on the grass in the middle of some college campus crying. I wish I was simply having boy problems, but it's more than that. Zuko is the first person I've ever gotten this close to—and I’ve broken his trust. I also miss Mom so, so much. But I can’t bring myself to open that book.

I hug my polar dog tightly with one hand and clutch my new necklace with the other. I notice a rough indention on the backside of the pendant, so I unclasp it and read the inscription. It’s the name of the constellation—the “great bear.”

Ursa.

[dianamjackson]

Use the Force Luke (2015)

This was a piece I wrote in 2015 during one of my break-ups with visual art (specifically drawing). We got back together again after this, then broke up again. Now it looks like we regard each other as long-ago lovers might: ‘you’re beautiful and lovely but I’ve moved on, thank you.’ I always recall how Duchamp quit art and took up chess, or how Carrie Fisher’s husband left her for a man... Drawing will always be in my life, albeit in a smaller role. But this piece isn’t about drawing or art -- it’s about waking up and realising you’ve been wrong about something (or someone), even when it seemed, for all intents and purposes, so right. It’s about having the courage to accept the way things are. (Italicised text not in quotation marks constitutes my 2018 responses.) ‘Luke, you switched off your targeting computer. What's wrong?’

‘Nothing. I’m all right.’

And indeed, I am all right too. Why? Because last Monday, on the 6th of July 2015, at around lunch time -- I quit art.*

There are many reasons for this and they have recently become impossible to ignore. The main one being:

“I’m just not that into you.”

Imagine your whole life you’ve been told you are straight. You acted straight, felt ‘straight enough’ and had heterosexual relationships. Sometimes you even quite liked it. Then one fine day, clear as a bell, the fantastical insight, quite without warning, alights upon your head: you’re gay.

That’s what I feel like now. I don’t know that I’m gay, but I know I’m not straight.

*Well, quit the pursuit of art as a career fine artist in the conventional sense. There are other ways of ‘being artistic’.

It was truly a lightbulb moment, just like in the movies. ‘Ah! This weight I’ve been carrying around -- I don’t have to! It was self-imposed, a chore all along. Bubbling under the surface always was I do not want to be a fine artist. I do not want to be an artist. I don’t feel like an artist. I mustn’t be an artist… These people are artists. Am I like them? In my life thus far, great things have happened when I’ve ‘let go’, when I’ve stopped trying feverishly to attain something -- particularly goals I’ve set myself. I thought that was the way to achieve things -- set goals. What I didn’t know was how powerfully something could take possession of me from the outside, without me controlling it.

Over the years I’d managed to find a peace and inspiration in visual art like a gay man can in a relationship with a woman. A disquieting pebble in my shoe whose persistent rubbing I’d gotten used to. Pride was resident in the boast “I’ve been at this for 28 years!” How can I ignore a thing with such pedigree? But The Thing isn’t about time spent; it isn’t quantitative. Say I have spent my entire life in bad habits -- is that an excuse to continue them? If I flatten a tyre do I get out and flatten the other three?

Doing art is boring. For me. Sitting in a room all day and into the night -- even if accompanied by a functional heater and Wagner -- sinking deeper into a miasma of pointless and circular introspection about my life and how it’s going, the validity of what I’m doing and my relationships with others as I laboriously render a 5cm square of paper -- let me tell you now dear reader -- the answer is a foaming, blazing, sparks-flying-out-of-my-ass No.

Yes, I draw very well. I can copy things I see because I can judge relative size and position of shapes, and relative colours and their intensities. I can draw steady lines 1/8th of a millimetre thick or less because I have SHARP PENCILS, a STEADY HAND and FINE FINE MOTOR SKILLS.

I’m an excellent copyist. I can imitate anything -- painting styles, real-life objects, your signature, your accent, your walk, even your voice. Copying has a certain thrill, for sure. “Yep, I can do that too.” A fleeting and superficial pride attends these feats. Then come the cheap requests: “Can you draw a photorealistic drawing of my dog/my girlfriend/my parents/my face?” “No.” “I’ll even pay you!” (Gee, how nice!) “No.” People ask me would I like to be an artist full-time. No! That would be horrible. Or just boring, which is a soft kind of horrible, but horrible all the same. It would be like being an invalid, or under house-arrest. No.

Aptitude is a mysterious thing. I have good taste, a fairly broad range of interests and I am curious. I like colourful and shiny things because I am human and geared to like these things. But all these, even combined with technical ability, are not sufficient. I always recall what my illustration teacher said to me when I was 14: ‘Your technical ability is at Year 12 level. Now all you need is something to say.’

Art doesn’t make sense to me and perhaps that’s what held me in its thrall -- I’m drawn to things I don’t understand because they’re a challenge. But the fact that there are no answers at the end, nothing to discover -- frustrates and depresses me. It leaves me cold. What’s the point of playing a game if there’s no consensus on what constitutes winning? It is still true that I’m drawn to things I don’t understand. However, I now disagree that there is “nothing to discover” in art. On the contrary -- it is indistinct enough to include almost any interpretation. Instead, perhaps it is its lack of precision that frustrates me -- I find writing is much better at nailing concepts. Art’s openness is hence both its strength and weakness. I was enamoured of science at the time of writing this piece; confirmation bias was certainly at work.

To Feynman, philosophy was stupid. To me, art is stupid. This is uncharitable and myopic, but in a certain sense I do believe it. Art is ‘dumb philosophy’, and philosophy is ‘dumb science.’ I’m not the first person to advance this idea. Amazingly, the hierarchy has for me flipped: at the bottom is science, which is just a procedure; then philosophy, which grapples with concepts; then art is at the top. Art’s preeminence is due to the fact that it doesn’t try to be philosophy (contra Danto; if art tries to be philosophy, it’s just philosophy). Art is its own project; it doesn’t give a fuck about anything else.

I refuse to spend my life troubling my head over something I feel obliged to do mostly because other people think I should. Did I ever stop to consider my true feelings on the matter? Curiously, no.

A trip to Europe or an art show that appeals to me usually engenders a furious period of inspired production. I want to ‘do’ the buildings and spaces that I saw -- capture them, own them, possess them. But this is the consumer’s passion, the gatherer's, not the artist’s. And I do them because I can. I don’t care about innovating in art; I just like making pretty things that soothe my eyes. I'm a jeweller; a confectioner; a traditionalist. An enthusiastic cake-decorator, a polisher and tinkerer. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve attended exhibitions in the past several years, and when I do it’s often only because a friend wants to. I am not part of any artistic community, and I hardly ever buy art books (certainly no instructional ones). Art theory I don’t mind, and generally my choices are non-fiction -- philosophy or science. Perhaps I think art can tell me nothing that I don’t already know or feel; or at least that there are other disciplines and activities far more qualified to do those things.

I spent my entire design degree trying to figure out what design was. What is this thing? Why is it? How does it fit in the disciplinary landscape? How is it possible to judge designs when the assessment criteria is so unclear? Perplexing things are like this -- they make sense to other people. My classmates seemed to melt so easily into what needed to be done. I also felt different because of the importance they placed on personal style -- I was always merely practical and thought such effort misdirected. So while they got off on paper stocks, central alignment and thick-rimmed glasses, my head spun from the Boudrillard, Barthes and Žižek that eventually led me to academic philosophy.

Little signs along the way hinted at it -- an early and enduring love of vehicles and machines, a lack of respect for the ‘anything goes’ attitude in high school studio arts, confusion in my first degree, an impatience with teaching art and much of my cohort, a frustration with the general character of my peers in experimental art and music circles, a persistent fascination with science, taking a job in dentistry, the conspicuous lack of artists among my closest friends and a preponderance of scientists, software engineers and psychologists. There aren’t even any architects among my close friends. Most conversations with 'artists' remind me of Zappa's recordings of stoned hippies talking gibberish on Lumpy Gravy.

And the boredom. Oh the boredom. Only retrospectively do I realise how deep my boredom was, and all the troublesome and potentially damaging things I did to try and alleviate or ignore it. In Hungarian there is a perfect saying -- pihent agyu -- meaning those whose minds are ‘overly rested’, which translates roughly to ‘idle hands are the devil’s plaything.’ Boredom, pride, lack of courage to assert my true inclinations and desires -- such deadly sins muddied my time.

This is one of the most significant realisations of my life, and it has taken me this obscenely long to acknowledge it in full. One can set out so obviously in a particular direction, for so long, and for all intents and purposes look set for success in it. Everything can seem perfect: the tables are laid and the ribbons hung, the champagne poured. But patterns and intuition must be heeded -- the tiny, persistent voice that tickles closest to my heart -- even if it means the whole party must be packed up. The truth is often uncomfortable, but it's true.

One needs to truly love the thing one sacrifices for -- it has to fill the spirit in a way almost nothing else can. It’s a compulsion so strong and lasting that all else is employed in its service. Then it is worth it. It has to be what one wakes up for, the thing that is so thrilling that spare moments are spent on it and one’s person is filled with an almost embarrassingly unguarded glee when the loved thing is spoken of. Did I have these for art? No. It was more that odious thing that I owe to friends and family who are so impressed by my abilities and, in the case of parents, facilitated them.

I feel empowered; awoken. I’m taking up the oars and steering across the lake, headed for the unknown. It’s been easy to be passive, letting myself be tossed this way and that by the currents of outside opinion and counsel. It’s been easy to retreat from hard work out of fear and laziness. But these will no longer do.

I wash my hands of you, flickering cave pictures. I place you in a little boat laden with flowers and candles and push you out into the blue. May you be pampered and stroked and coddled by those you truly thrill.

May this be a lesson to any person trapped in the visions -- however convincing -- that others have concocted for them.

May this be a lesson about the perils of lacking the courage to face the uncomfortable, the surprising, or the merely inconvenient, truth. © Diana Szabo 2015-18.